Pilates teacher: You have what we call a “floppy” body.

Yogi: Your hips are really…open.

Personal trainer: You don’t have a lot of fat on you – it just all happens to be on your arms.

During a recent school night session with some old co-workers, the conversation turned to growing up and childhood pastimes.

Claire: So I named my budgies Popcorn and Peanuts, and when they died, I buried them in my fairy garden.

Me: What the hell is a fairy garden?

Claire: You didn’t have a fairy garden?

Me: No?

Julia: I guess your parents just didn’t love you enough.

Claire: If it makes you feel any better, my parents eventually turned my fairy garden into a Japanese stone garden.

Me: No, that doesn’t make me feel better. I hate all your North Shore problems. I played with empty cardboard boxes and tupperware containers as a child. I didn’t even know what a Barbie was until I started school. I had a sandpit full of dirt and everything I owned was a hand-me-down of some kind from my brother.

Julia: Is that why you dress badly?

Me: Fuck you.

———————————————————————————————————–

Too many of my conversations like this. I still want that fairy garden though.

According to the internet, this is what I missed out on.

Ugh so pretty

Even worse

This is bullshit

Now they are just taking the piss

Ugh. My parents were soooo mean. My mother had me convinced that raw cookie dough tasted like medicine until I was old enough to wonder why she was eating it all herself if it was so gross.

Did you have a fairy garden? Or were your parents bad people too? What is the phone number for DOCS?

Me: I got new jeans today. Size six!
Ryan: That’s weird.
Me: I know, usually I’m an eight.
Ryan: Well, I would have said a ten…

Ryan: This girl said that being friends with me is like childbirth. At the time, you’re like, “This is the most painful thing I’ve ever experienced, it’s horrible and I just want it to be over.” But then afterwards, you’re glad you did it.
Me: That’s pretty accurate.

Me: So did you pick up on the Gold Coast?
Ryan: Nah. Chicks up there won’t talk to you if you don’t have any tattoos, or if you’re wearing a shirt with sleeves. And usually I have to get by on my intellect and charm, because I’m not really that good-lookng. I’m sure you have the same problem.

On seeing a bunch of hipsters on Crown Street.
Ryan: What is with the way people dress these days? When did it become cool to go out wearing your mum’s cardigan? It’s like they just go roll around in a Smith Family clothing bin and crawl out wearing whatever sticks to them. They’re like, “I’ve got a dirty nappy on my shoulder, that’s how fucking hip I am. That’s not even fake poo, that’s real poo.” Losers.

Ryan: You’re funny. And not just for a girl, but for a person too.
Me: I am a person.
Ryan: Yeah, with a humour-killing uterus.

Me: Come to yoga with me.
Ryan: Will there be chicks there?
Me: Probably.
Ryan: I can’t sit there grunting and sweating while wearing skin-tight lycra pants in front of a bunch of chicks.
Me: You don’t have to wear lycra.
Ryan: Fuck, Annik, if I’m going to do yoga, I’m going to do it properly.

Ryan: John and I came up with the best pick-up line. You go up to a girl and say, “Hey, do you want my number?” Before she has time to answer, you say, “Of course you do.” Then you hand her your number and say, “Why don’t you give me a call later, when you’re not acting like such a bitch.”

Ryan: We should download a bunch of female stand-up comedy and then turn it into a drinking game. Every time they make a period joke, we chug.

Me: I don’t know what to do about this weird chick.
Ryan: Skelty, this is all I’m going to say: once, a guy threw a lemon tree in my bed while I was asleep in it, and I never saw him again. Know what I mean?

Ryan: When I was a kid, I dated the hottest girl in school. It was right before she got anorexia, when a girl reaches her absolute peak of hotness. Like when she’s still eating, but right before she gives up celery.

Me: I saw an infographic on semen today. Did you know there are 20 calories in a load?
Ryan: That would explain why that girl I hooked up with on the weekend was so fat.
Me: And did you know that sperm can live inside a woman for 5 days, or on a toilet seat for 3 hours?
Ryan: What about on a girl’s face?

Matt: My roomie is on her way with a friend.
Ryan: Is her friend hot?
Matt: Kind of.
Ryan: Dude, I can’t talk to a hot girl right now. I’m about to eat pudding.

• one dead goldfish
• four towels covered in blood
• fingerless gloves
• a broken stair banister
• a toothpaste penis on the bathroom wall
• vomit splashes on the cupboard doors
• the garage door no longer opens
• someone drank half my vodka
• my birthday book got stolen
• somebody pooped in our bin

Ryan: Nice boots, Skelty. Are you going to a rodeo later?
Me: Shut up.
Ryan: I’m sorry. Seriously, you look really nice tonight….from the ankles up, anyway.

Ryan: You haven’t blogged about me lately.
Me: You need to say more funny things first.
Ryan: Have you not been listening?

Me: Will it be weird if it’s just the two of us at dinner?
Ryan: Nah, that’s cool. You’ll get to experience what it’s like to go on a date with me, except I won’t try and finger you behind the restaurant after we’ve eaten.

Ryan: How was your day?
Me: Eh… I was a bit depressed this morning.
Ryan: Was it because you knew you were going to wear that outfit tonight?

Me: Check out that figure skater!
Him: I could never have sex with her. She’s too graceful. It would be like putting tomato sauce on a really nice steak.

Me: Damnit, my pants shrank.
Him: Are you sure?
Me: Yes, I just got them out of the dryer.
Him: Maybe you’ve put on weight.
Me: I haven’t put on weight. These pants fit perfectly yesterday, now they’re too tight. Clearly, they’ve shrunk.
Him: They look the same to me. That’s all I’m saying.

Him (on the phone): Hey, I’m just at the pub with Annik. Yeah, she’s right next to me. What’s she wearing? Well she’s got what appears to be a curtain wrapped around her waist, tied with a piece of cheap rope; a faded non-descript black singlet; and sunglasses that definitely cost less than $15. In fact, I’m pretty sure she found them on the side of the road.

Him: I literally have nothing to wear. All my clothes are in the wash.
Me: You can borrow one of my shirts, if you want?
Him: It’s okay, all your stuff is too man-ish anyway.

Me: And my UAI is…wow.

Mum: What is it?

Me: Almost ninety-five.

Mum: Well that can’t be right!

Dad: Maybe you should give the Board of Studies a call?

Not my work

By far, the worst job I ever had was during the summer when I was twenty-one. I’d returned from South Africa early after a failed attempt at voluntary work (I like money) and couldn’t resume my old job for another 4-5 months because there wasn’t yet any work for me to do there. For the first time in seven years, I was unemployed.

I played nintendo for a few weeks, drank a lot of beer, and sunbaked all day in my parents’ backyard before my mother told me I should think about contributing to society.

“I’m an organ donor,” I reminded her.

“No, I mean you should get a job,” Mum said. “Pay some taxes.”

“You don’t,” I argued.

“Not according to your father’s accountant.”

“Fine, I’ll get a job.”

And after a few interviews with recruiters, I eventually landed a temp-to-perm position doing accounts payable in North Sydney….for a funeral home.

“Is the nature of the business going to be a problem for you?” I was asked during the interview.

“Bills is bills,” I said nonchalantly. “Besides, I like the quiet.”

However, unlike an episode of Six Feet Under, this job proved to be less fascinating than you might think. I was primarily trained by a balding middle-aged man who smelled funny and breathed heavily, which meant I could never have any sort of meaningful professional relationship with him. The hours were 7:30am to 4:30pm, which meant I had to drive in because the buses didn’t start until 8am. And so, every day, I parked my car illegally, and every second day, I got a parking ticket. The residents in North Sydney were clearly sick of the parking situation, because they often abused me. One morning, a lady drove out of her driveway, then told me I had parked too close to it.

“You just drove out of it,” I pointed out.

“I hope you get a ticket!” she said.

“Okay, thanks.”

“Fuck you!” she said and drove off.

At work, I spent my days coding and entering invoices for flowers, catering, burial plots and children’s coffins. I could tell you how much it cost to cremate an adult, an adolescent or a baby; what flowers were most popular; and which funeral celebrants were well-respected. I spent all day looking at names of dead people, and every time I saw a surname I recognised, I had to stop and google them to make sure they weren’t related to somebody I knew.

My co-workers were mostly Asian mothers. Our boss was Cruella de Vil. On my first day, she showed me the depressingly small kitchen. I opened the fridge and noted a complete absence of alcohol.

“You can have a biscuit from the jar, if you like,” she offered. “It’s free.”

“Sure,” I said, knowing that I would eat as many biscuits as possible to compensate myself for working in such a soul-sucking hell hole.

I spent every lunch break chain-smoking in a park around the corner, calling everyone I’d ever met and asking them if they knew of any jobs going. Eventually I found a temporary position doing admin at a friend’s office. I went over for an interview and drank a beer with the CEO, who was wearing board shorts and thongs. We chatted casually for fifteen minutes and he asked me when I could start.

The next day, I quit the funeral home.

“This is awfully short notice,” Cruella protested, “I have no idea how we’ll cope with the workload.”

“Oh I didn’t really do much,” I said, comfortingly.

“This puts us in an awkward position,” she continued.

“Who cares,” I replied. “All your clients are already dead.”

I never got offered anymore work through that particular recruitment agency and I haven’t been to North Sydney since.